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Writer: Zhul
Date Fri Aug 14 13:47:12 2026
Subject The Last Letter
Jeb finished the last line carefully, sanded the parchment, and read it
through once more before setting the quill beside the inkwell. Hed spent
months writing for the orc, and despite being held captive and starved, hed
become very good at being a scribe for his captor.
Finished, Jeb said.
Zhul took the parchment despite being unable to read a word upon it. His
yellow eyes moved over the neat lines anyway, lingering near the bottom
where Jeb had signed his name.
Good?
Yes, General.
Zhul folded the letter and tucked it beneath his armor. For several moments
he said nothing, and Jeb mistook the silence for dismissal. He began
gathering the ink and unused parchment, already considering what the General
would demand written next.
Jeb.
The elf looked up.
Zhul had grown accustomed to him. That was the irritating part. A scribe
who could accurately render his words without needing clarification twice
was useful, and finding another would take time. Yet Jeb knew the roads,
the targets, the disguises, and the name Broken Lantern. He knew enough
that capture, escape, or simple carelessness could ruin his plans.
Zhul drew one of his axes.
Jeb understood before the blade was fully clear.
General.. My family?
Still alive, he lied.
The promise brought a brief, confused relief to the elfs face.
Then Zhul killed him.
The letter remained tucked safely beneath the Generals armor, its contents
known now to only those who needed to know them. Zhul looked down at the
dead scribe for a moment, annoyed more by the inconvenience than the corpse.
He would need another elf.
Writer: Zhul
Date Fri Aug 14 14:10:09 2026
Subject No Verminasian
The uniforms had been folded and stacked along the barracks wall,
replaced by clothing gathered from the poorer districts of Verminasia. Worn
leather, patched wool, old traveling cloaks and scuffed boots covered the
tables while six soldiers picked through them for anything near their size.
Their weapons had received similar attention. Decorated scabbards had been
discarded, shields left behind, and anything carrying the colors of the
Royal Army joined the uniforms against the wall.
Take the brown one, a soldier said, tossing a cloak across the table.
Black makes you look like you're trying not to be noticed.
The man caught it and examined a tear near the shoulder. And this makes me
look like what?
Poor.
I already look poor.
Then it'll suit you.
The others laughed while they packed hard bread, dried meat and waterskins
into plain saddlebags. Their orders had already been given. They knew what
sort of travelers they were looking for and what was expected when they
found them, but one detail had been deliberately withheld. None of them
knew where they were going.
The door opened while one soldier was working dirt into a pair of boots that
still looked too new. General Zhul entered alone, and conversation faded as
every man in the room noticed what rested across his shoulder.
At first it resembled some grotesque club wrapped in barbed wire. Then the
shapes became recognizable. Slender legs had been bound together beneath
coils of iron, while two arms were pinned tightly against a narrow chest.
The body had been petrified from head to foot, preserving the pointed ears
and features of an elf several of the soldiers remembered following Zhul
through the fortress with parchment beneath one arm.
Zhul rested the petrified corpse against the table with a heavy knock and
produced a small folded map. He passed it to the nearest soldier, who
opened it while the others gathered around. Their eyes followed the road
south until they recognized Arkane, then moved beyond it to several lesser
roads and a circle drawn heavily in charcoal.
The clothing suddenly made sense. So did the plain weapons, the mixed coin
and every warning they had already received.
One soldier stared at the circle. So we're supposed to make it look like-
Zhul struck him across the mouth hard enough to send him stumbling against
the table. The soldier recovered with blood already gathering across his
lip, but whatever remained of the sentence stayed behind his teeth.
You were given your orders once, Zhul said calmly. There is no reason to
repeat them aloud.
His yellow eyes moved between the six men. You will not discuss this here,
on the road, or after you return. Not over drink, not with a lover, not
with a friend, and certainly not with another soldier. You know what is
expected of you. Now you know where.
He placed one thick finger upon the charcoal circle.
Here.
The soldier folded the map and slipped it inside his coat. When do we
leave, General?
Now.
Zhul lifted the barbed, petrified remains of his former scribe onto his
shoulder and left without another word. Silence remained for several
moments after the door closed behind him.
One soldier finally looked toward it.
Wasn't that his scribe?
Another returned to packing.
Not anymore.
Writer: Darcell
Date Sun Aug 16 16:47:15 2026
Subject Makers Mark I of II
Darcell kept two ledgers.
The first contained measurements, materials, and designs. He recorded the
weight of every ingot, the balance of each weapon, the cost of rare
components, and the disposition of enchantments beneath the three moons.
Nothing was entrusted to memory when ink could preserve it more accurately.
The second ledger contained names.
That one was far more valuable.
Beside each name, Darcell noted what had been given, what had been promised,
and what might eventually be requested in return. A repaired breastplate
might earn the friendship of a soldier. A sword made at cost could place
him in the good graces of an officer. The right gift, presented before
anyone thought to ask for it, might purchase the gratitude of an entire
household.
Others called such gestures generous. Darcell never corrected them.
Generosity was an admirable reputation to possess, particularly when other
people paid to spread it. Every warrior who displayed his work advertised
his skill. Every noble who praised one of his gifts increased the value of
the next. He could afford to lose coin on a commission when the finished
piece carried his name somewhere coin alone could not take him.
Nothing left his hands without purpose.
Darcell intended to become known first as dependable, then as exceptional,
and finally as indispensable. Anyone could admire a craftsman. Darcell
wanted rulers to consult him, commanders to seek him, and accomplished
warriors to measure their own importance by whether he considered them
worthy of his attention.
His work would justify every bit of that regard.
He had no interest in producing ordinary steel. A common smith could heat
metal and beat it into the rough shape of a sword. Darcell meant to treat
hatred as another material of the craft. Malice could be folded into an
edge. Resentment could be sealed beneath a plate. The arcane would give
those passions structure, allowing a weapon to express what its wielder
lacked the discipline to contain.
The process would require precision. Uncontrolled hatred was wasteful. It
flared, exhausted itself, and left little behind. Darcell wanted something
more useful: hostility that waited, anger that held its edge, and cruelty
that answered only when called upon.
His armor would not merely turn aside a blow. It would resent the hand that
struck it.
His weapons would not simply cut. They would carry something of their
makers judgment into the wound.
There would be difficulties, naturally, though Darcell considered
difficulties an inconvenience suffered by people on their way to admiring
him.
Everyone had heard of the dwarven forges of Thaxanos. The stories credited
Lord Cliath with taking up the dwarves to help forge Algoron, and some
dwarves improved the account by claiming the god had fashioned them in his
own image. Darcell found the tale useful. It demonstrated what centuries
of repetition could accomplish for a craftsmans reputation.
Writer: Darcell
Date Sun Aug 16 16:48:15 2026
Subject Makers Mark II of II
He had no desire to argue with dwarven legends. Argument suggested the
matter deserved consideration.
The dark elves had already built furnaces of their own. Exile had taught
them to create without the approval of Shalonesti, while the history of
House Katath had given them little reason to respect the judgments of those
who called themselves good. They did not require a creator gods blessing to
master fire and metal. They required fuel, knowledge, and the will to
improve upon what others had done.
Darcell possessed All three.
He closed the ledger and inspected the empty space where his makers mark
would eventually be drawn. It needed to be recognizable at a glance and
difficult to imitate. In time, buyers would search for it before judging
the weapon itself. Counterfeiters would attempt to copy it. Rivals would
complain that the reputation attached to the mark exceeded the quality of
the work.
Rivals often said such things when excellence became expensive.
Darcell imagined his weapons passing through the realm. One might hang at
the side of a king. Another might be carried into a battle that altered the
borders of kingdoms. A breastplate might preserve the life of someone whose
gratitude proved more valuable than gold. Each piece would travel farther
than he could, enter halls where he had not yet been invited, and introduce
him before he arrived.
That was the true value of the forge.
It would manufacture more than weapons and armor. It would manufacture
expectation. By the time Darcell appeared in a foreign court, those
gathered there would already know his work, his reputation, and the cost of
securing his favor. They would have heard his name from people they
respected or feared.
They might believe they had summoned him.
Darcell smiled at the thought.
In time, greatness and Darcell would mean the same thing.
Writer: Aothien
Date Wed Aug 19 01:15:43 2026
Subject One mans gifts are anothers nightmares. (Pilgrimage)
Aothien crept through the shadows, carrying long wooden stakes and coils
of rope. The eastern roads of Arkane were quiet at this time. Despite the
Temple of Siccara being near by, so was the Horde, and they were not known
for mercy. He glanced over the stock he had. Depending how thorough his
assistant was, he might need more than this, and perhaps even with extra
stakes that would just provide more of what he called 'Object Lessons'. He
continued to build up his pile of stakes, waiting for the known sign. A
whistle, in a very specific rhythm. It might call some attention, but
again, this wasn't exactly a place one would go looking for trouble.
Almost as he thought that, a three toned whistle chirped in the distance,
and the remnants of a magical portal faded. This would be whatever the
assistant brought. Aothien smiled grimly as he skulked towards the whistle,
being careful not to make too much noise through the brush. Twenty someodd
corpses were left, in various states of death or dying. The ones not fully
dead yet bound and gagged to prevent more noise. Pilgrims, the whole lot of
them, some either too curious or too careless for their own good. It was
time to get to work.
Pulling a long brutal looking dagger from his waist, the work began. Tying
the pilgrims or bodies of pilgrims into large wooden stakes, and placing
them along the eastern road. Some tied with rope, others entrails that were
still dragging upon the ground. He tried to keep the living ones breathing,
settling for rope and wounding them so they would not live past the march of
the larger group of pilgrims. It was tiring and bloody work. Not his
blood, but a mortal corpse held a surpringly large amount of it. The end
result would be worth the work. Several hundred yards of road, with the
pilgrims very friends and family butchered and displayed before their very
eyes.
Yes.. Let us see old man Sol'Canta keep their hopes now that the very fear
they only see in nightmares is directly before their eyes.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Wed Aug 19 18:15:58 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: Mourning the Loss
Mourning
Geirhart lightly touched the foot of the crucified pilgrim, as though if he
applied any more pressure it would collapse upon itself. Families gathered
around him in mourning, their tears and heartbreak evident. The old priest
had seen this before, the Darkness often strung up bodies as a show of
defiance. Weither it was Boof blowing his horn to destroy Althainian
soldiers, Tobryck killing acolytes daily for a hundred days, or any of the
other multitude of dark worshipers, it was the same.
As with each time, the old priest would aid in taking the body down and
giving it the proper last rites. He would console the family and let them
know their loved one was in the arms of the Holy Family. As was always the
case, voices grew in anger as the mob of pilgrims began to turn from grief
to rage.
'Where were the Arkanian soldiers? Does Queen Nereza allow peaceful folk to
just be slaughtered on her Highways?! '
'It was too dangerous to be this close to the Horde! We should never have
come here! '
'We should march upon Verminasia! Clearly this was the threat they promised
us! They are to blame! '
Voices raised around him and Geirhart knew this moment All too well. He
heard it when Gareth fought itself over the war with Shalonesti. He heard
it within the rage of the elves over the slaughter of their people by Chaos.
He saw it in the eyes of the Thalosians who's lives were upended by the Rip
in the skies. The mob was a dangerous thing and just as before, he would
need to calm them down.
'Friends! '
'I understand you grieve and that in that sorrow there is anger but this is
not the way. We have no army, we have no forces here to counter their
attacks, we are but simple pilgrims travelling. To turn violent now is to
give into what they wish. They would use this against us or even as reason
to slaughter more of us. '
Geirhart paused as his baritone voice carried across the fields.
'There will be a time for Justice, mark my words. What you have lost shall
be avenged but it must not be through more bloodshed. This is not our way,
this is not who we are. This Pilgrimage was to find the soul of the Light
and that quest, we shall learn nothing and undo All we have strived for
should we turn to their ways. '
Geirhart raised his staff, its golden circlets catching the lingering rays
of the setting sun.
'Our strength lies not in retribution! It lies in the communal acts of
kindness, compassion, and community that binds us together. Comfort one
another, aid one another, remember that in this no one is alone. If you are
called to righteous war, seek out Gareth or the Wrath. Train yourself with
the values of those Knights and Soldiers and rise above petty hate. Be
something more! '
Geirhart's voice continues to raise, the wind catching his robes as they
float and spill around him.
'Our journey is almost at an end. That journey was never one of ease or
without sacrifice though we were fortunate over this summer time. Danger
was ever over our shoulder. Yet let our defiance be a continuation of that
quest! Let the realm know that we shall not be cowed! We shall keep to our
commitments and we will strengthen our faith! Let them know that these
sacrifices shall not be in vain but will create the momentum that will
inspire us after this pilgrimage is over. We shall be stronger, together!
'
Eyes, red from tears, seemed to lose the anger that dwelt within them.
Backs grew stiffer as children were held close by a single parent.
Something floated unseen between each individual that gave them All a
calmness.
'This is just the beginning of a new chapter and book! Let us turn that
page and welcome the future to come! '
No cheers greeted the priest just nods. Noses were wiped and backs were
patted, and the old man walked into the crowd to tend once more to the
duties of a priest.
Resolve
Writer: Khexisth
Date Thu Aug 20 07:53:54 2026
Subject Eyes of White, Hands of Umbra
Khexisth stood at the threshold, his scarred head tilted, listening to
the fading echo of Aothien's words. The Inquisitor had settled beneath the
Umbrastone, his milky eyes closed, his body radiating the quiet agony of
whatever had taken root beneath his skin. The white blotches had spread,
then stabilized.
He turned his gaze toward the corridor where the golden light had vanished.
A light that flees deeper is either a lure, or a lesson.
His jaw tightened. He had spoken those words to the clan, but they had been
meant for himself. The Citadel did not offer gifts without cost. It did
not offer warnings without purpose. And whatever had struck Umbrus Caelum,
whatever had shaken its ancient foundations and left the air thick with
recognition, it was not finished.
Should any light, whether godborn or otherwise, breach the threshold of
Umbrus Caelum and approach Drakkara's seat on Algoron, that would be a gift
worth witnessing indeed.
The Citadel's shudder faded into stillness, but the weight of what had
passed lingered in the air like the echo of a bell too large to hear fully.
Reports began to filter in from the towers and the outer battlements, scouts
and sentinels who had seen the golden light streak across the sky above
Arkania, its trajectory deliberate. It had struck the Citadel with purpose,
and then, as if satisfied with its impact, it had turned and flown toward
the coast, vanishing into the haze where land met sea.
Writer: Daveigh
Date Thu Aug 20 12:14:03 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: The Golden Residue I
The heavy wooden doors of the Temple of Siccara stood open as they always did,
inviting the weary into a space of peace and healing. Inside, the vaulted
ceilings caught the glorious light from the high stained glass windows,
scattering a variety of colors across the ancient flagstones. The air was filled
with a goodness of spirit that usually felt like a warm embrace, yet as Daveigh
prepared to depart, the atmosphere felt heavy still with what they had
encountered. The reports of the pilgrimage being attacked and the innocent being
slaughtered had cast a long shadow over the sanctuary. She adjusted her robes
and stepped through the carved stone archway, leaving the comfort of the golden
radiance behind to face the grim reality of the road.
As she exited out onto the small dirt road, the sounds of the distant river and
the rustling leaves of the forest filled the air. To the north, the flash of
white stone from the temple was still visible through the trees, but her focus
was on the path ahead. She had come prepared for a somber and difficult task.
Based on the reports, she expected to find again a site of absolute desecration
where the followers of Kadiya, Siccara, and Kantilles had been displayed upon
the unholy symbols of Drakkara. She had every intention of ensuring that those
who died were given the dignity they deserved.
However, as she approached the area where the bodies had been found, the
expected scent of death and the oppressive weight of malice were nowhere to be
found. A remarkable change had swept over the landscape. The streak of golden
light that had recently sailed through the skies above Arkane, and its divine
wake, had transformed the site of the tragedy. Where there should have been the
gruesome sight of the crucified, there was now only a profound sense of
consecrated holiness. The sinister icons of the Drakkaran had been wiped away
and replaced by a warmth that seemed to emanate from the very soil.
The bodies of the pilgrims were gone, and it was at that moment that Daveigh
realized they had not been taken by the hands of men. In the area where the
shadows had been deepest, several sets of golden footprints now glowed with a
soft and divine residue. These footprints trailed off toward the city of
Arkania, marking a path of promise rather than one of defeat. It became clear
that the Light had reached to claim their own. Darkness would lay no further
claim or final victory over what remained.
There were still pilgrims gathered along the road, however, and the sight of
them brought the weight of what had happened back into focus. Some stood in
silence, staring toward the place where the bodies had been. Others wept openly,
their grief made All the more painful by the knowledge that they had so recently
walked the same road as those who were now gone. More than a few kept glancing
toward the golden footprints, wondering what they meant and whether the same
fate might find them before they could return home.
Writer: Daveigh
Date Thu Aug 20 12:14:53 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: The Golden Residue II
Daveigh moved among them quietly, offering what comfort she could. Families were
drawn close together, mothers keeping their children near while those who had
come alone stood with an uneasiness that was difficult to hide. She reassured
those who feared for their own safety that they would not be abandoned on the
road, taking the time to speak with them and ensure that those preparing to
leave had a safe passage home. The Emperor would see to the needs of the
families who had seen loss this day, she assured them, and the Abbott and the
followers of the Light would continue to pray for the fallen, for their
families, and for every soul who had undertaken the Pilgrimage and even those
that had not.
The woman stood for a long time in the center of the road, looking at the spot
where the crosses had stood. Burial shrouds could be set aside, for they were
no longer needed. Kneeling upon the holy ground, she reached into her bag and
pulled out a bundle of fresh white flowers. She laid them gently over the spot
where each follower had been as a tribute to their sacrifice and a sign of
respect for the blessings of the Light.
She offered a quiet prayer for those who were now held in the embrace of the
Family. Though the servants of Drakkara had intended to spread fear and despair,
their cruelty had been answered by a display of divine grace. The road was quiet
again, yet the lingering warmth of the golden light remained as a declaration
that it would always protect its own.
Having finished her prayer, she stood and turned back toward the gathered
pilgrims, remaining with them for a while longer before finally making her way
back toward the city, leaving the flowers to rest upon the consecrated earth.
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Thu Aug 20 14:59:13 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: Remorse, Inner Conflict and a Wilderness of Mirrors (I)
Back and forth Erlestoke paced. Unable to get the images of the dead
pilgrims from his mind. {I have seen death before, I have wrought death
before, on battlefields and in streets, alleyways and homes, but to see such
hapless victims.. The thoughts echoed through his consciousness.
Erlestoke halted his movement looking out through the quiet garden in a
desperate attempt to find peace. But the cobblestone path nor the soft
grass or the quietly burbling fountain could offer any solace. {It was my
failure.. I could have done more.. I should have fought harder to keep the
remnants of the Order together... If we still had assets in place perhaps
something could have been done to prevent this...
Shuffle and step, shuffle and step and back to pacing Erlestoke fell into
more fluid motion. "And where was I!? " he practically shouted breaking
the calm of the garden. A moment later he froze in place quickly twisting
his head at the sound of footsteps out by the road. Only when Erlestoke saw
the liveried city guard march past paying him no more than a token glance
did Erlestoke finally relax his unexpected tension.
Erlestoke finally ended his pacing and sat down on a nearby bench. What had
his mentor called it? 'The wilderness of mirrors'... The place where
paranoia clouds judgment and truth cannot be separated from fiction. He
stared at the fountain, his eyes becoming fixated on the words engraved in
stone.
"For those that spend their lives in worship and service to these gods, may
the paths from this place bring you just a little closer to them." The
plaque read.
"Where do my paths lead? " Erlestoke whispered quietly to himself, "How
much longer can I work in shadow before I am consumed by it? "
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Thu Aug 20 15:01:07 2026
Subject Pilgrimage: Remorse, Inner Conflict and a Wilderness of Mirrors (II)
Erlestoke sat reflecting on his life, talents, faith and purpose for many
hours until he was shaken from his thought by the coming of the dawn over
the tops of the nearby buildings and with its arrival he stalked from the
garden and out into the city streets. The hint of bustle just crawling out
into the streets with early work being done in bakeries and taverns to
prepare for the day, the aromas of baking bread and savory porridges wafting
into the street.
Scent, what a deep tie it must have to memory to evoke such vivid thoughts
of his childhood. Erlestoke's thoughts were pulled back to the mystery stew
that always seemed to be bubbling away. The potatoes always a little too
overcooked, the meat unidentifiable and stringy, the vegetables were always
rough chopped and that hint of thyme, parsley and rosemary unmistakable on
the palette. Not fine cuisine, but hearty and filling and far more than a
host of war orphans and abandoned children could have scrounged on their
own.
War seemed inevitable, even his childhood had been marked by it. There
would be no escaping it now either, while he valued his mentor's teachings
and the pragmatism he was taught, and the inheritance he had received,
treated almost as an adopted son; he found himself thinking back on the
dreams he had of his life before his unorthodox education. He still
recalled the day he had been dropped off at the orphanage by those heavily
armored warriors. He recalled the swords they carried and how he wished to
be one of them.
His nostalgia was broken then for the moment as he found himself in Memorial
Circle staring up at the monuments. I had dreamt of being so much more than
what I have become...
Erlestoke found himself once again lost in thought wrestling with how he
could better prevent pilgrims, the pious, the innocent and young from being
harmed again.
War must be while dark powers strive for the destruction of the Light, of
Hope and of Good. War demands warriors, can I be that after so long having
been a spy, or inquisitor or the other roles I have filled, can I even find
hope again?
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Fri Aug 21 01:56:39 2026
Subject Thasgerdian Philosophy
Sixteen men and women stood at attention with their shields strapped to
their backs, and weapons housed in their sheathes, and standing before them
was Thasgerd. He hand picked these knights, They were personable but
followed the Thasgerdian philosophy of be gentle, but don't take any crap.
He briefed them on the situation and what happened to the pilgrims his
friend Geirhart was leading. He told the knights these people will be
terrified and on edge, give them comfort and hope, be their hammer and
shield, watch each other's backs, and the pilgrim's. Work with the Shield
Knights, and he'd be there in a few days when Abbott Sol'Canta and the
pilgrims made their trek out of Arkane.
He looked over the three paladins and confessors, they always worked well
together, and if some soulless vampire was lurking, they would know. He
moved on to the four rangers, they each donned armors and hooded cloaks of
earthy greens and browns, a good team of keeping eyes All around and quiet
in the woods the trails snaked through. Clad in heavy arcanium plate were
an armsman and armswoman. Various weapons, whips, flails, large swords and
polearms and whatever else they felt they could strap to themselves were
ready to do what an armsman or woman's weapons were made to do. A team of
two wu-jen, both from Shokno and very regal looking in their silk attire
would be able to provide some diversions with the elements if needed, and
two illusionists, very much of Kantilles and very capable of confusing an
enemy with a false image and just All around fun to be around. Except if
you got charmed or electrocuted or blasted with some acid.
Thasgerd's eyes gleamed over the Knights again then asked, "Catch mae drif'?
"
The sound of armor, cloaks and robes, weapons and shields shifted as boots
hit the floor and snapped against the heel of the other and in unison a
confident 'Aye, Sir! ' was belted out. Their general dismissed them and
sent them to meet up with the pilgrims. Whoever it was wanted a reaction.
They got one.
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